The Gardener's Son
by CassiopeiaNoire
Summary: (IN PROGRESS) "Her gaze was now directed to how he hastily wiped away the sweat from his brow with the handkerchief he kept tucked in the pocket of his shirt; taking a brief reprieve from his work, Tom had glanced up towards the window and met the stare of his now-grown playmate—his smile was still just as cripplingly beautiful."
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note**: As stated in my profile, I am BEYOND excited to finally post my first fic. I started writing this early today upon inspiration, and I couldn't wait to post it, so, here it is! I do not have an exact outline or plan for this story, although I will say that I am not planning this to be very lengthy. I'm aiming for about ten chapters or so. Then again, who knows what may happen? We'll see! This fic is AU, and there is no Hogwarts/wizardry involved. And although the rating is T right now, it may change later on down the road, so I will keep you updated on that. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy my first story! Read and review.

Much love,

Cassiopeia Noire

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**DISCLAIMER**: All characters and the Harry Potter world belong to J.K. Rowling.

* * *

_**CHAPTER ONE**_

_**March 14, 1999**_

Hermione didn't believe in spirits. Not really, no.

Of course, her grandmother had passed on certain tales—something about a porcelain doll in a decrepit house in the briny-scented air of the cliffs that spattered the edge of Wales in Three Cliffs Bay—of supernatural entities, but Hermione had only listened for the sake of pleasing her.

She had not returned to her grandmother's ancestral home in many years; Hermione had briefly visited with her parents one summer at the tender age of five, but since then, she had not remembered much. All that she knew now was that she was to return on a scholarly mission and study a certain species of whelks that were colonizing in the area for her graduation research assignment. Naturally, her rapidly aging grandmother had been overly eager to allow her to use the house as a means for her stay, those bony, quivering hands wriggling in excitement and something else—

Hermione's hands gingerly picked up and scanned the faded polaroid pictures that her grandmother had given her after their conversation that had taken place hours before; most of them showcased Hermione, her five-year-old self posing on the beach, digging her toes into the tawny brown sand, others showing her displaying her collections of various sea shells, mussels, clams—

And then there was one where Hermione was pictured next to one of the flower beds, holding the hand of a young, dark-haired boy—

The wind howled outside.

She shivered.

* * *

_**March 21, 1999**_

The sand was still the same shade of brown, and the water still was frigid cold as the midnight blue waves lapped along the shell-speckled edges of the shore. Her grandmother's house stood looming from above the cliffs and the beach, overlooking the area from its seemingly regal position as the sole house located in the area.

Hermione had risen rather early in order to survey the various tide pools and their inhabitants; she wondered if they had changed during the fifteen years she had been away. Around six in the morning, Hermione had strolled into the dimly lit, gloomy kitchen, set a pot of water to boil, and watched out the window as she noticed the gardener's son, methodically working away at discarding the multitude of weeds in the flower beds surrounding the estate.

She had known him—Tom Riddle—from a young age.

When she vacationed with her parents and grandparents at this very house fifteen summers ago, Tom Riddle Sr. had introduced his only son as a playmate for five-year-old Hermione, and the two of them had been inseparable for the better part of her stay.

Hermione spent the majority of her time with Tom upon meeting him, either helping him plant flowers and weed the gardens with his father or splashing him with the ice cold waters of the sea, seeing who could gather the most shells before dinner time was announced. She could still vacantly recall the more intimate moments they had shared before she departed with her family—

* * *

_**(June 26, 1984)**_

_Threads of her spectacular memory recollected the moment in which they had hidden in the decrepit boathouse as the rain poured down and the winds roared outside. Tom had managed to find a set of candles and matches on the farthest top shelf of the cobweb-covered cabinet in the corner of the shack, and she could still remember their sweat-sheened hands intertwined with young Tom repeating, "It'll be all right 'Mione, it's just a storm—"_

As she watched him vigorously plug the sprigs of dandelions littering the garden, she recalled lecturing him after he had foolishly cut his finger on the sharp edges of a cluster of goose barnacles.

_**(July 9, 1984)**_

_She remembered seeing ruby pearls of blood drip from the slight nick on his finger, and even though it had hurt, Tom refused to show any sign of the pain. He had been constructing miniature sand sculptures with her until she had eagerly tugged him by the wrist to investigate one of the tide pools and admire the miniscule ecosystem within. After discovering a small collection of goose barnacles, she had been more than happy to display her growing knowledge of marine biology, her first and foremost passion; Tom had listened with vapid attention, which apparently got the best of him as he reached down far too quickly to feel the glistening surface of the petite creatures—_

_His eyes widened, and he yanked back his hand at lightning speed, causing Hermione's speech to come to an abrupt halt; immediately, Hermione snatched his hand scrutinized the drops of crimson blood collecting at the tip of his finger._

"_I __**told**__ you, Tom, I had just finished saying that these barnacles are dangerously sharp and look at yourself—"_

_Although he appeared to be listening to her heated lecture, Tom had truly been fixated on the feel of her touch, and had momentarily forgotten about the brief pain._

_But Hermione didn't know that._

Her gaze was now directed to how he hastily wiped away the sweat from his brow with the handkerchief he kept tucked in the pocket of his shirt; taking a brief reprieve from his work, Tom had glanced up towards the window and met the stare of his now grown playmate—his smile was still just as cripplingly beautiful.

_**(August 15, 1984)**_

_Little Hermione's hands shook ever so slightly, her lips quivered, and tears pricked at her eyes, as her parents began packing their suitcases into the trunk of the car. Tom could feel her trembling as his held onto her hand, reassuring Hermione that he would see her very soon._

"—_be all right, 'Mione, we'll see each other soon, I even think I heard my father telling your grandmother we'd even be going to the same school. It'll be soon, very soon, 'Mione, so don't worry—"_

* * *

And that had been the last time she had seen Tom. They had exchanged letters after her departure, and Hermione received, on average, about ten letters per week. However, about three weeks into their fleeting correspondence, Tom revealed to Hermione that he would not be joining her at her school; his father had hired a private tutor so that young Tom would be able to work in the various gardens and landscapes of the estate. She had cried and cried—

A new season had arrived, and with it came to Hermione and her parents' move to London, far away from the Welsh seaside, and after finding a new circle of friends and busying herself with schoolwork, she had given up the exchange of letters and chose to focus on her academics instead. Her stack of his letters had been tied up and decisively tucked away in the farthest corners of her trunk in her room, never to be touched again for years.

When Tom looked up and smiled at her, Hermione resolutely walked away, trying to ignore the blush creeping up her neck.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: SURPRISE! Another update! And so soon. I quickly wrote this chapter in the past couple of hours. If you can't tell, I'm rather excited about this fic. I hope that you enjoyed the first chapter and enjoy this one as well. I'm not sure when I will update again, but it should be soon, whenever the inspiration strikes. Happy reading!

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_**CHAPTER TWO**_

By nine o'clock, Hermione had showered, dressed, braided her hair into a messy plait, and gathered her journal and other supplies to make the trek down to the beach. She hurried into the kitchen and slathered some marmalade on a slice of bread, poured some of her already-made tea into a thermos and tucked it into her satchel. With a sudden start of realization, she quietly crept over to the kitchen window and peeked around the edge to glance down at the flowerbeds. Tom was gone, and so were all of his gardening tools. _Good_, she thought, _no need for an awkward confrontation then_.

To be truthful, she had frequently wondered about Tom while on her way to the family estate. Her mind retreated to the multitude of scattered memories of her too brief vacation that summer fifteen years ago, and she had reflected upon what had become of him. She knew that with her family's wealth her grandmother could have easily said the word to provide Tom's father with the finances needed to send Tom to university, but Hermione could not see Tom pursuing a more—_lucrative_, she supposed—career. During her stay, she recalled Tom teaching her the names and traits of the countless varieties of shrubs and plants in the gardens and the proper methods of trimming hedges, while she would instruct him on how to correctly identify the types of seashells along the beaches. After continuously watching him and even helping his father treat and manicure the landscape, Hermione could only picture him doing, well, _gardening_.

She could distinctly remember his wavy, dark brown hair, which was almost black in color, and the way that his equally dark eyes glistened when he would teach her about the different species of flowers and shrubs that he and his father would plant in the gardens—

She remembered the way their hands felt intertwined, sticky with perspiration from being joined together too long, and she could also recount the way that same sticky hand rubbed her mass of curls in an attempt to be comforting during the storm that night in the boathouse.

She remembered the thrill of excitement that surged through her when her parents would hand her the letters addressed to her in a shaky, spidery script and remembered how her fountain pen would glide across the surface of her stationery at lightning speed, eager to have it placed in an envelope, stamped, and delivered as fast as humanly possible.

She wondered if Tom remembered too.

And as she watched him from that same window in the early hours of the morning, his muscles rippling and tightening with the exertion of yanking weeds from their wrongful places, she wished that he would. She had seen the way his brows snapped together and how his full lips pursed in the intense concentration of his work, how he would wipe the slight sheen of perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief, the way he ran his large hands through his wavy, almost black hair—

She had to admit to herself that he _was_ handsome. She had always thought he was. Even when she was simply five-years-old, she had thought that Tom was special. There had been no other boy like him, no one to match him, and she could certainly not forget those piercing dark eyes that seemed to follow her wherever she went. His appearance had not been drastically altered; he had simply become taller, more lean and muscular, more manlier. Maybe she had told him when they were together that summer, maybe she hadn't. But now, Tom Riddle was truly a sight to behold. Just by thinking of him, her cheeks warmed with a rosy red blush.

After a bout of daydreaming at the kitchen window, Hermione decided to head down to the beach and begin her research, hoping to find an ample amount of specimens to begin studying. She laced up her boots, threw her satchel over her shoulder, and walked through the entryway of the house and out the door. Compared to other locations along Three Cliffs Bay, the pathway to the beach was short and relatively easy to follow without the possible threat of tripping and falling down the jagged jetties. Since her family's trip, Tom Riddle Sr. had kindly constructed a petite, wooden bridge that allowed visitors to simply step across it and over the rocks to the sandy dunes of the nearby beach.

Hermione made her way across the bridge and landed on the familiar sandy shore, her boots crunching with the impact. The tendrils of hair that had loosened from their plaited position flapped in the slight current of wind, the chill of the briny air nipping at her face, and Hermione smiled at the sea, feeling the electric surge of familiarity coursing through her. She had missed it after being stuck in the urbanized city for so long, and she had missed the peacefulness and the sound of the waves lulling her to sleep at night. Most of all, she had missed being able to survey the different tide pools and the creatures within without being hounded by her fellow colleagues and professors—this was _her _beach, _her_ tide pools, _her _ocean.

She selected one of the larger pools to observe first, and gingerly laid her bag atop one of the rocks jutting out from the sandy surface. From her satchel, she extracted her leather-bound journal, filled with countless pages of her sketches of various specimens, and her packet of graphite pencils. Most of her colleagues preferred using cameras to photograph their collections, but Hermione always opted to hand draw hers, as that had always been her method of choice; she smiled in remembrance of her grandfather, a renowned botanist, who had often showed her his private collections of journals with hand drawn sketches of plants and flowers.

It was then that Hermione began her search for _Nucella lapillus_, commonly known as the dog whelk, identifiable by its small, spiral-shaped shell. She scanned the relatively clear surface of the tide pool, taking time to gaze reverently at the groups of pink-shelled shrimp clustering near the rocky crevices and watch as a lone hermit crab fumbled its way through the sandy bottom. Her pupils dilated with never-ending fascination as a school of minnows hovered in a forest of seaweed, flowing and rippling with the current, and next to the fish, Hermione noticed the telltale shell of a lone dog whelk nestled in the corner of the rocks; she immediately grabbed one of the large mason jars and a small net to collect the whelk for further inspection. She removed the lid of the jar and let in a small amount of water and set the jar on a nearby rock; with the net positioned in her tight grip, Hermione lowered it into the water towards the whelk, angling it underneath in order to successfully collect it. However, she soon felt the familiar tug of the mesh pulling against one of the edges on the rock.

_Great_. _A snag_.

Huffing with impatience, Hermione stuck her other hand into the water, groping to find the snag and free the mesh of the net. Between trying to see into the slightly murky water and fumbling for the snag, Hermione failed to notice the grouping of barnacles nearby—

"Ow!"

Hermione yanked her hands and newly torn net out of the water, immediately grasping her left hand, which now had a fresh cut on the tip of her index finger. She watched as blood pooled along the pink slit, and hastily reached into her satchel for something to cover it. From the noise of rummaging through her belongings, Hermione didn't hear the crunch of footsteps hurrying along the beach until a familiar form dropped to his knees in front of her, reaching out to take her bleeding hand; Hermione let out a startled squeal and fell backwards onto the sand.

* * *

"Sorry, Hermione, I didn't mean to scare you," said Tom as he offered her his hand to pull her back up into a seated position.

"Tom!" she screeched, half in fear half in agitation. "Don't do that to me! Where the bloody hell did you come from anyway? I didn't see you in the garden, I thought you had left—"

He smirked at her, reaching into his pocket and removing a pad of gauze and some tape.

"So you were watching me from the window, weren't you?"

He gently took her hand and fastidiously cleaned the abrasion while Hermione sat, completely dumbfounded, in shock at being caught completely unaware by Tom Riddle.

"I certainly was not, I was trying to see the visibility of the tide pools and monitor the weather," she blustered, trying to control her breathing and recover. Tom's brows knitted together in concentration as he fastened off the gauze, placing the tape back in his pocket. "Why are you even carrying around that stuff anyway?"

He smirked again.

"Well, one can never be too careful when digging through the pools," he commented. "After my first incident, I think I learned my lesson."

Hermione blushed with the sudden onslaught of the memory. _He had remembered_.

"Well, yes, I suppose," she stammered quietly, gazing down at her bandaged finger, cheeks flaming.

Tom flashed a crooked smile at her, and plopped down on the sand beside her, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. The waves of his hair trembled in the breeze, and Hermione had to resist the urge to run her fingers through it as Tom had earlier. Instead, she dug her hand further into the sand.

"So tell me, Hermione, what have you been doing these past—what, fifteen?—years?"

He looked over at her expectantly, that same dark gaze piercing through her, charismatic and begging her to spill her entire life story to him. She simply stared at him, for how long she did not know, just looking back into those eyes, searching for other signs of remembrances, signs to show her that he _had_ remembered every moment of that summer, just like she had.

"Well?" he asked, watching her curiously, further causing her heart to flutter irregularly and her cheeks to redden.

"Oh, yes," Hermione sputtered, turning her attention to the white-capped waves. "Well, it certainly has been busy."

He nodded in understanding, turning his gaze towards the lapping waves of the sea as well.

"Yes, I believe father mentioned that you were attending university," he nonchalantly noted. "And I'd bet that you're studying marine biology, am I right?"

Hermione smiled and nodded, and in return he chuckled and flashed another grin at her. Even though she had been dreading a confrontation, she found herself unable to resist Tom's charm. That same charm still worked the same way it had years ago.

"Of course," he said, "it only makes sense. I can still remember you lecturing me after I had nicked my finger on the edge of those barnacles—something like, "_I __**told**__ you Tom, they were dangerously sharp, now look at yourself_"—well, Hermione, look at _yourself_ now!"

He immediately laughed, and Hermione promptly swatted him on the shoulder with her free hand.

"Shut it, Tom!"

His laugh was terribly infectious, deep and melodious, and Hermione found herself stifling a chuckle as well. Her nervousness was rapidly dissipating, and she was quickly finding herself to relax into the shores of the beach, scooting ever so closely towards him. He hadn't changed—Tom still had that magnetic personality that drew Hermione towards him. She couldn't fight it—she felt as if she were her five-year-old self again, eagerly waiting to see what she and Tom would do next. She found herself wishing she could take his hand, just to see if it felt just as she remembered it—

She glanced over at him, and noticed that his brows were once again knitted together in that same form of concentration, staring into the horizon as if he were searching for something unknown.

"Hermione," he started in a more serious tone. She immediately snapped her head towards him, once again meeting his darkened gaze. "I would be lying to you if I said that I didn't miss you. You know I rarely had many friends to begin with, but that summer—I won't forget it, I promised myself I wouldn't, and I haven't."

She dumbly nodded at him and his admission, trying to find a reply. She had missed him too, even more so when their correspondence had come to a halt. She had become so consumed with schoolwork and the ever present need to excel in her academics and please her parents; she had left the stack of letters behind along with the lingering memories of the boy who had spent nearly everyday with her.

"I remember it too," she replied quietly.

His eyes flashed with something—happiness possibly?—upon her emission.

"You do?" He asked. She nodded again. "I do so very well. I can still remember how _terrible_ you were at trimming those hedges, and I remember telling you that you would never amount to much if you didn't learn how to do it properly—"

Hermione found herself smiling at the memory, listening intently to every word Tom was saying, watching how his eyes flickered with amusement at his animation of the various stories and recollections.

"—and you and that little journal you carried around, I remember you showing me all your drawings of the shells and the crabs, crude, of course, but vastly better than what I could have done. Not to mention that night in the boathouse, I had no idea you had such a prominent fear of thunderstorms—"

His gaze soon returned to find hers, his eyes searching once again—

"And I remember holding your hand because you were scared," he started, in that same serious tone, "you were scared, and I remember our hands were sweaty but I didn't care. I didn't want you to be scared. Ever."

Hermione gulped.

"Well," she spoke, "I don't think I'm scared anymore."

Tom smiled at her.

"I should hope not," he returned, glancing down at her hand tucked into the sand in the empty space between them. She found herself unprepared when he hoisted himself up from the sand and stared up at him.

"How would a cup of tea and some sandwiches sound to you, Hermione?"

Her heart fluttered at the thought of spending more time with him. She watched as he glanced down at her and offered his hand.

She gratefully took it, and he lifted her onto her feet with ease. She smiled brilliantly, and he did so in return.

"That sounds lovely," she agreed.

Tom smiled and clasped her hand, leading her up the dunes and towards the bridge.

His hand was still sweaty.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**: Here it is, as promised! This chapter actually came to me and was written with surprisingly great ease. I know I mentioned earlier that I estimated the length of this fic was going to be around 10 chapters, but now I am not so sure. I wanted to take time to build the romance between Tom and Hermione and not just rush into it. So that is why I've been taking the time in these past three chapters to really work on building up the romance between them. I mean, let's be realistic here. If I hadn't seen a boy in fifteen years, of course I'd be a little apprehensive and wouldn't immediately be hanging all over him. It takes time! Anways. This fic may be longer than intended. We'll see. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

_**CHAPTER THREE**_

Nearly two hours had been spent conversing over simple sandwiches—plain with peanut butter had been Hermione's favorite, _another_ miniscule fact that Tom had amazingly remembered—and lukewarm Earl Grey tea. Hermione was pleasantly surprised. Even though she had been ridiculously nervous about confronting Tom after not speaking to him for years, he had proven to be a very talkative, friendly companion, just as he had been before. Hermione figured her anxiety mainly stemmed from the possible resentment Tom might have held towards her for discontinuing their correspondence; Tom, however, had assured her that it had been all right, that he had understood the importance of her studies.

He had gladly given her a shortened summary of his endeavors over the past fifteen years, and Hermione learned that, compared to her hectic life, Tom's was relatively simple. After Hermione's departure, Tom resumed landscaping with his father, and eventually grew old enough to provide the same service to others in the neighboring town, earning his own money, which he stashed in a secret biscuit tin hidden in his room. Unbeknownst to Hermione, her grandmother had indeed offered an ample supply of money to Tom for the furthering of his education, and he gratefully accepted, leaving his father's meager home for Cambridge, two years prior. With good humor, he relayed his brief tale of living in the city for five months, and he admitted to Hermione that he absolutely despised university. According to Tom, the classes and professors were "much too formal" for his liking, and the city was "far too complicated", so he elected to drop university and return to his childhood home and continue the work he had always done.

Hermione gladly listened to him, never interrupting, just sending occasional nods of understanding and small smiles of encouragement, as she sat enthralled with his storytelling abilities. As he spoke with vapid animation, Hermione found herself yearning to make up the lost time between them; when she locked his stack of letters away, she had no idea that she would have missed something about a little boy she had met with a passing fancy so much. Although she would most likely never admit it to Tom, she wished she hadn't left.

In return, Tom had asked Hermione to tell him about her life story thus far, starting with after her departure. Hermione obliged, but she assured Tom that his tale had been much more captivating compared to her rather "dull" existence. She told him of the fine academies her parents had paid for her attend, how she was the top of her graduating class, how she had been awarded for her academic achievements, and received multiple scholarships for the University of Wales. She told him of the triumphs and hardships of university, mostly relaying the tales of her marine biology pursuits, becoming especially excited when telling him of a trip she and three other students took to the Great Barrier Reef of Australia. Tom sat and listened intently, smiling brightly at her, eyes glistening at her words, and Hermione found herself becoming more and more comfortable with him, even more so than she had been with her closest friends at home. As she spoke, she watched Tom and his mannerisms, even noticing his hand inching ever so closely towards hers, secretly wishing that he would just reach over and take it.

Some things never changed, she guessed.

The boy that she had known that summer was still the same, and he still had such a profound effect on her.

"Well," Tom started after Hermione became silent, "I don't think I would have ever been able to keep up with you. I always knew you were brilliant, Hermione, but wow—"

Hermione preened at his words; she was accustomed to people praising her for her academic excellence, but those words coming from Tom just seemed so… _validating_. As if she had been craving that approval. Strange.

"Thank you, Tom," she replied quietly, her stomach beginning to churn again with a foreign feeling. He had turned his attention fully towards her and smiled again, one of those smiles that just caused her heart to flutter, and he politely offered to take her dishes. She watched him as he strode over and laid them in the sink and continued to follow him as he went to stand by the window, looking outside and squinting his eyes into the dim sunlight. He appeared to be searching for something, uncertain and questioning.

Before she could realize it, Hermione let out, "What is it?"

Tom immediately snapped his attention back to her and quickly assured her nothing was the matter. He turned back to the window for a last glance, and then stepped back to the table to stand in front of Hermione.

"I think I have an idea of what we could do next," he stated simply, looking down at her expectantly.

Hermione instantly became nervous at the prospect of spending more time with him, nervous at wondering what he could possibly be wanting to do and nervous because she really needed to begin her research. With Tom around now, however, Hermione found herself easing the need to study further into the back of her mind, and she found herself bubbling with anticipation and excitement, something she had rarely felt in such intensity.

"And what would that be?" she asked, directing her eyes towards his. They were glistening with that same excitement.

"Just grab your bathing suit and meet me at the entry way," Tom replied, easing his way around the table.

Hermione quickly reached out to grab his wrist.

"Wait!"

"Is something wrong?" Tom genuinely looked worried.

She loosened her grip, placing her hands back into her lap, feeling dry in the mouth as Tom stared at her.

"Nothing," she stammered, "I just thought the weather, it was supposed to rain and its chilly and—"

Tom let out a chuckle, his eyes twinkling merrily at her, immediately causing Hermione to close her mouth indignantly. She hadn't been _wrong_, of course she had checked the weather, it _was_ rather cold outside and why she would need her bathing suit was ridiculous—

"You need to trust me, Hermione," Tom said, taking her hand and allowing her to stand from her seat, "It's not going to be _that_ cold, and where we're going it's certainly not going to be cold. So, come on, go get changed and meet me over here."

Alarm bells rang in her head. Where could he be taking her? If the weather had been like it had earlier this morning, then she was positive the water would be ice cold. But she had to make a decision with Tom staring at her expectantly.

"Okay," she breathed, completely unsure about trusting him at this point, yet finding herself that she wanted to follow him. She wanted to be with him.

She just couldn't say no.

* * *

In her bathroom, Hermione nervously tugged on her two-piece swimsuit that she had packed to wear under her clothes while wading in the pools. Although she normally did not mind in the slightest what her appearance looked like, she suddenly felt compelled to inspect every inch of her body to make sure she at least looked decent. She decided to simply put back on the clothes she was wearing previously to cover herself until they arrived at their mysterious destination; after briefly watching her reflection in the mirror, she yanked the hair tie from her hair and let her curls fall freely, and she even coated her lips in a thin layer of pink lip balm for subtle color. Satisfied with her appearance, she threw her bag over her shoulder, preparing herself to meet Tom at the entrance of the house.

Her hands were shaky as she opened the door to her bedroom, and the otherwise quiet creaks of the old floors suddenly became much louder; her heart rate seemed to beat to the speed of helicopter blades, and it seemed to take an eternity for her to walk down the stairs and towards the entryway.

She peered around the corner and noticed Tom standing at the door, clad in his simple canvas shirt, complete with swimming bottoms and the same pair of shoes he had been wearing.

_Taking me swimming_, she muttered in her mind, _not a very bright idea to begin with, he's going to freeze in those shorts_—

Tom had apparently noticed her arrival—god, she swore that her heart really wasn't beating so loudly—and turned to smile at her, eager to begin their little trip.

"Ready?" he asked, trying to hide the eagerness in his voice.

Hermione nodded, and awkwardly shuffled to stand beside him at the door. He reached for the doorknob and allowed her to exit first, and then took her hand and began to lead her across the lawn and towards the east.

"I thought we were going swimming!" Hermione exclaimed, trying to tug Tom in the opposite direction, fully aware that the beach they had been hours before was to the west.

Tom patiently pulled her along with him as Hermione huffed indignantly, digging her feet into the ground.

"We _are_, Hermione," he insisted, trying to stifle a chuckle at the way she was wrinkling her nose in irritation. She was obviously confused. "Just not that one. There's a special place my father showed me, and I want you to see it. I think you'll like it."

Hermione eased in her protests, but was still contemplating his words. She had thought her grandmother and grandfather had shown her all of the places to see around the house, so having Tom leading her to a strange, unfamiliar place was making her more nervous than she already was.

She never deviated from the familiar, the planned, the already known—

But she also knew that Tom was unpredictable.

He was very meticulous and planned, but he had a slight spontaneous streak that would manifest itself occasionally.

"I don't think—" she stammered until Tom hushed her.

"Trust me, Hermione, you'll enjoy it," he smiled at her. "I wouldn't take you somewhere you wouldn't want to go. And I _know_ that you'll love all the little creatures that live there."

He noticed that Hermione visibly perked up at the sound of that; although she was an enigma in multiple ways he could never fathom, Tom knew that the sea and the marine life was her true passion, and he genuinely knew that she would enjoy where they were going.

She didn't answer, but she nodded in return—honestly, was she really this jittery all the time?—and obediently followed him across the lawn and towards the jetties.

As she resolutely looked at the ground, carefully watching her every step, Tom watched her.

He hadn't seen her in years, and his five-year-old self had never really taken the time to just _look_ at her.

He watched the way her brow and nose crinkled slightly in concentration, how she bit her bottom lip, making it swell pink; he was not oblivious to how tightly her small hand was gripping his, and the nervous energy she was emitting was practically _tangible—_

He watched as her thick, yet tame curls ruffled as they were caught in the breeze, and when he saw them he wondered if she remembered when he spent the better part of their evening in the boathouse rubbing her hair in an attempt to comfort her yet also because it just looked so _soft_—

He wondered if it felt the same.

In reality, Tom had never really been around many girls, let alone know one like he had Hermione; since he and his father lived in separate quarters near the Grangers' home, which was already an hour away from the nearest town, he had rarely ever seen any, save for Hermione and her mother and grandmother. He knew bits and pieces of his mother, whom his father had often told him about, but he had never really known her since she had died when she had given birth to him. Summarily, Tom had never been able to see himself with any other girl, except Hermione.

Undoubtedly, she was special.

She had taught him so much in their short time together that summer, and he had been able to finally have someone to play with and garden with and do so many things with—

He didn't think she realized the extent of how her companionship had affected him, and she most likely didn't. He was confused as to why she was acting so jittery and nervous—after all, they had spent nearly three months together—but he also guessed that a fifteen year absence could make one, especially a girl, a tad apprehensive.

He wasn't nervous. Not at all.

When he was told by Mrs. Granger that Hermione would be visiting and that he was to ready the house before her arrival, he had immediately begun his work, pouring every once of energy into making everything absolutely immaculate.

He had spent endless hours of everyday scrubbing and polishing every floor, every touchable surface, and he even dusted every shelf, every visible nook and cranny, working tirelessly from dawn till dusk. He had paid special attention to the her bedroom, the same one that she had privately shown him those fifteen years ago, and hand-washed her sheets and linens, cleaned the wardrobe and vanity, and even placed his best roses—crimson red ones were her favorite—in one of her grandmother's vases and set them on her nightstand.

He wanted _everything_ to be right.

And when he saw her, she was peering down at him from that window, hair still slightly askew from bed rest, clad in a simple housecoat, biting her lip—

In that moment, he _swore_ that he had forgotten how to properly use his trowel. It had been fifteen _years_, yet there she was, looking down at him, and he suddenly wanted to drop everything, sprint into the house, and just _hold_ her—

She had no idea.

Just _holding_ her hand was enough. For now.

He looked back at her, and when he did, it just seemed so _right_.

He wanted to make this day special. He had made his first impression—hopefully a good one—and he wanted to her to enjoy this time more so than the times in the past.

Tom suddenly found himself breaking into a jog, pulling a confused Hermione with him.

* * *

After about ten minutes of Hermione impatiently huffing and Tom helping her stumble her way across the various rocks, they arrived to a secluded opening at a section of the bay. There was a single, large pool of the bay, cut off from the rest of the ocean and surrounded by walls of the jetties. It was definitely secret and secluded; peacefully quiet and tranquil, with no disturbances.

Hermione had stopped momentarily to look at the water's calm surface, it's cerulean blue water shimmering and glistening in the weak sunlight, teasing her, inviting her to wade in. She could see schools of silver minnows flitting around the rocks, and saw groups of vivid white barnacles clustered at its edges; small, salmon pink anemones sat in the corner closest to them, and there were a couple of cream shelled hermit crabs gathering at the water's edge. She had to admit, she was impressed. It was beautiful. So small, yet so perfect, thriving with the marine life.

"I take it you like it then," Tom smiled down at her, the waves of his hair jostled by the wind.

She smiled brightly at him.

"Of course I do," she breathed, still in awe of the little wonders of this awe-inspiring pool. "It's very beautiful; I had no idea it was even here."

She let go of his hand and wondered down the slope of sand towards the water's edge and watched as the family of crabs scuttled into the depths. With ease, she tugged her boots off her feet and dug her toes into the sand at the water's edge. She heard the crunch of the sand as Tom stood to join her, and her eyes widened as she noticed that he was wearing nothing more than his swim shorts.

His skin appeared to be alabaster smooth, spattered with faint sprinklings of darkened hair on his chest, and a trail of the same hair leading down from his navel to—

She gulped.

Her eyes immediately darted back up to his face.

He glanced back at her.

"Well?" he questioned.

She stared at him in disbelief.

"Well what?" Hermione retorted.

"Well _I _brought you here so we could go swimming," he stated as an obvious fact. He began to inch his way into the water, and Hermione just stood there, flustered.

"It's cold out here, Tom, I don't think—"

He rolled his eyes at her.

"Of course it's cold out here, but not in _here_," he added, stepping further into the water. "Just feel it!"

Hermione was confused. Why would this particular spot be warmer than the rest? It certainly wasn't one of those mountain spring saunas or something of that nature. But it did look inviting, and watching Tom glide so effortlessly into the water made her want to join him.

She made her decision.

"Okay."

He turned expectantly towards her and watched as she tugged her jumper over her head and pulled off her slim-fitting khaki pants; she refused to meet his gaze, slightly embarrassed and flustered at Tom seeing her in a two piece, crimson red with gold trim bathing suit. She supposed it was silly, but she _swore_ she could feel his gaze boring into her as she removed her outer layers of clothes. She hadn't seen his eyes widen and darken, and she certainly didn't see the brief flush of color in her cheeks as he stared—

Before she could convince herself to turn and run, Hermione hesitantly stepped forward into the water.

_Oh wow_.

Tom had been right, of course. The water was pleasantly and unusually warm; almost like the perfect temperature of her frequent bubble baths. Although there wasn't any floral-scented soap or candles involved, but there was an attractive young—

_Get it together Hermione_!

She continued to inch her way into the water until she found herself side by side with Tom at the furthest edge of the pool, and the water rose to level just underneath her breasts. Underneath the water's surface, her leg brushed against his, and something that resembled an electric shock ran through her, sensitizing her fingertips and toes as they came in contact with the sandy bottom and jagged edges of the pool's enclosure.

She turned to see Tom looking down at her, smiling that same beautiful smile, those dark eyes flickering with a mysterious _something_—

And she smiled back.

She had fully turned to face him and was about to comment on the water's warmth and then—

Her eyes and mouth immediately snapped shut as the sudden onslaught of briny water being splashed in her face assaulted her. Hermione let out a shriek of disbelief and vigorously wiped at her eyes as Tom laughed rather loudly, apparently pleased with himself.

Hermione opened her eyes and fumed at Tom's laughing figure.

"That wasn't _funny_!" she cried, watching irritably as Tom finally ceased his chuckling.

"Well, Hermione, what do you plan on doing about it?" he taunted, eyes gleaming with mischief and amusement.

She stared at him, eyes prickling with slight pain from the saltwater.

Before Tom could blink, Hermione began her own assault by continuously throwing splashes of water back at his face. He immediately emitted a surprised yelp and threw up his arms as a shield, as Hermione did not stop her onslaught.

As she drew closer to him, Hermione had no time to react when Tom surprisingly reached out and seized her wrists, causing her to screech in return. He pulled her snug against his chest with her back against him, locking her arms and wrists in place.

She may or may not have stopped breathing.

Unlike the pale exterior of his skin, Tom was warm, even more so than the water. She could feel the planes of his chest and abdomen pressing into her back, and could feel the outline of—

She swallowed.

"Are you quite finished?" he asked politely, turning her in his arms to face him. Her eyes met his, and she saw that they had become molten and dark, like melting chocolate.

Her breathing quickened, and she felt a strange tug in her abdomen as she stared at his handsome, chiseled face gazing down at hers.

She suddenly felt very small.

"I think so," she stammered.

He smiled at her, arms tightening around her, pulling her with him to rest on the surface of a rock jutting out beneath the surface of the water. She found herself nestling further into his warmth, which suddenly made the water feel a bit colder.

"Tom?" she asked.

"Yes?" he absentmindedly answered, as he suddenly became fascinated with her dampened curls, reaching up to capture one.

"Are you planning on letting me go?"

He smirked.

"Probably not."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note**: Yay, another chapter! This one has been the longest yet. I am very pleased with it, and I'm excited to say that the romance between Hermione and Tom is finally picking up and moving along. This chapter was somewhat difficult, yet very exciting to write. I hope you all enjoy it, I will try and update soon!

* * *

_**CHAPTER FOUR**_

Hermione looked down at her hands and inspected her now-pruning fingertips. She had gladly remained in Tom's embrace longer than she cared to admit, and, combined with the bathwater-warm water of the pool, she was pleasantly cocooned into a warmth that she refused to leave.

They had spent at least an hour and a half sitting upon the rocky ledge, and strangely, they hardly said a word to each other.

With her back turned to him, Hermione could feel Tom's free hand playing with her hair; she guessed that his fascination with her curls hadn't dissipated, for he continuously took various tendrils and twirled and wrapped them around his fingers. Goosebumps trickled down her back and her arms when Tom's fingertips occasionally brushed the nape of her neck; she felt like cat, wanting to squirm and arch into his incredibly gentle touch, but she controlled herself, only emitting a few breathy sighs of contentment.

She could have stayed like this forever, honestly.

But as she glanced down and saw the shriveling of her fingertips, she knew then that they would have to leave the water soon.

"Tom?" she asked in a soft voice, wriggling around in his arms to face him.

"Yes?"

She was unprepared for how close their faces were.

Hermione found herself staring at the different features she had never taken time to notice before; like the tiny, puckered pink line of a moon-shaped scar that rested just beside his left ear, and the miniscule caramel golden specks that dotted his deep, chocolate-like eyes. And her gaze drifted further down, down the slope of his nose, to see his full, dusty pink lips, and Hermione leaned in ever so slightly—

"Hermione?" Tom asked her again, looking slightly worried yet slightly amused at her.

She froze, cheeks flaming red, as she realized what she had been doing and hoped that he hadn't noticed.

"Oh, yes," she stammered quickly, diverting her gaze to watch a ghost crab scuttle by. "I just, well, you see—"

Instead of explaining, she reached up and showed him her hands, gesturing at her shriveled fingers, and Tom let out a light-hearted chuckle. He removed his free hand that wasn't holding her to his side and noticed his resembled hers.

"Well, my guess is that you would like to go back to the house and change," he speculated, looking above and into the quickly darkening sky.

She nodded, but smiled gratefully at him as she untangled herself from his grasp and headed back to the shore.

"As much as I would love to stay," she admitted, "I think we best get back before we get caught in a downpour."

Tom agreed, and made his way back to the sandy dune, catching one of the towels that Hermione lightly tossed at him.

The skies continued to darken, and Hermione quickly tucked her clothes into her bag and wrapped herself in the towel before heading down the rocky path, leaving a lagging Tom behind.

He quickly caught up with her though as she soon came to a halt, unable to get up one of the jetties.

"Need some help?"

Tom grinned at her, eyes twinkling, as she quickly and effortlessly stepped up the rocky ledges, reaching out to help and staggering Hermione, who kept muttering about "these blasted rocks."

As the rain began to pour down, Hermione began to shriek as the cold drops of rainwater hit her bare skin, and Tom snickered at her as she tried to push herself up the rocky walls, eager to make it back to the house. Nevertheless, Tom remained ahead of her, more than happy to help her in any way that she needed.

However, with the house another good few minutes away, and the rain pouring down even harder, Tom decided to do something that he knew Hermione wouldn't expect.

As they meandered up the last jetty, Hermione barely had time to react as Tom scooped her up in his arms, bridal style, and began a jog towards the direction of the house, not even fazed when Hermione shrieked with an exclamation of, "_Tom_! What are you _doing_?"

Her small hands tightened around his neck, one of them frequently reaching up to vigorously wipe the rainwater from her eyes.

"Well, Hermione, I'm _trying_ to get us back to a dry place," he retorted, amused at the way she was clinging to him for dear life.

He was rather pleased at himself.

If it were up to him, he could have sat perfectly content with Hermione nestled up so close against him, the warmth and softness of her milky white skin like catnip to him, making him want to keep her as near as humanly possible. He just wanted to touch her, even if it was just holding her small, delicate hands. He just wanted to be _near_ her, wherever she was, even if it meant traveling to the ends of the earth.

He suspected she didn't know that.

But he would.

He decided in that moment, with her pulled so close against him, he would willingly follow her anywhere. And the amazing thing was that they had only spent _one day_ together after being apart from so long, and already, she just filled his mind with such happy and exciting thoughts, which made him want to never leave her side.

He wondered if this is what love felt like.

He remembered his father telling him about the time he met Tom's mother at the local fish market in town, and recalled her hating him and rejecting his advances in the beginning, but he always said that he loved her from that very moment.

And Tom could remember the first day he and Hermione were introduced by her grandmother and he saw her standing there, nervously clutching her grandmother's hand, her deep brown eyes searching him, biting her lip and tilting her head in curiosity.

* * *

_**(June 15, 1984)**_

"_Come on, Tom," his father had said, "Mrs. Granger wants you to meet someone. Got to be nice now, make sure you use your manner. Just, here—"—he offered him a comb—"tidy up your hair a bit before we go. There you go, that's it. Spiffy there, aren't we?"_

_Tom was rather confused._

_They hardly ever had guests to see. The only guests Tom ever really saw were Mrs. Granger's lady friends who would come over and play cards with her—he would always see them, laughing and clinking their glasses of something through the window. In a way he felt nervous, but he was also excited at the prospect of possibly meeting a future friend; he secretly hoped it was a boy his age, someone to play with when he didn't have work to do. That'd be fun._

_His father shooed him out the door of their little house, which was conveniently located less than a mile away from the Grangers' estate, and Tom found himself eager to meet these mysterious people. He hoped, whoever they were, they had a boy. Besides his father's company, Tom was relatively lonely, as no one lived around here for miles off._

_Within twenty minutes, Tom and his father approached the main lawn towards the entryway of the house, and Tom noticed a couple, a brown-haired man and woman, standing with Mrs. Granger; he also saw another small figure, clad in a simple white dress, clutching the hand of who appeared to be her mother._

_He raised his brow in curiosity and frowned. _

_This was not the boy he had hoped for._

_As they came closer, Mrs. Granger hurried down the lawn as far as her feeble legs could carry her, and gladly took young Tom by the hand—he had always thought her to be a wonderfully nice lady—and soon found himself standing in front of the young couple and the little girl._

_He froze._

_He simply stared at her, mainly because he had rarely ever __**seen**__ one, but also because she was, well, __**pretty**__ in a way—_

_She was nibbling her small, bottom lip in a nervous fashion, and her caramel brown eyes stared back at him curiously, and her hair—_

_It was extremely curly, the color of mahogany almost, and Tom found himself wanting to reach out and take one of the loose curls, just to see what it felt like._

_By the way she was clutching her mother's hand in a vice grip, he guessed that she was nervous too._

_While staring at her, he almost didn't hear his father—_

"—_be shy, Tom, go ahead, tell Miss Hermione hello—"_

_He automatically stuck out his hand without warning and rather quickly, so suddenly that Hermione jumped back a bit, caught off guard by his boldness._

"_Hello, Miss Hermione," he greeted politely, watching her regain her composure. She had let go of her mother's hand and smoothed down the front of her pristine, white dress before reaching out and taking his hand, shaking it with a precise, calculated form of elegance._

"_Hello, Tom, it's a pleasure to meet you," she replied with a rather serious expression. _

_To Tom she seemed overly formal, the way she held herself and spoke to him. She acted like a miniature adult._

_Nevertheless, he found himself not wanting her to snatch her hand back, but he allowed her to and opted to simply stare at her instead. He watched as the breeze caught her curls and jostled them ever so gently, and she in turn watched him. _

_Little Hermione found this Tom Riddle to be an okay person, she supposed. She decided that she liked his hair; it was wavy and thick and very dark, almost black, and his eyes were just the same. She noticed that he kept staring at her, like he was looking at something interesting, and she suddenly found herself wanting to go back inside the house._

"_Hermione," her grandmother's voice called her attention. At once, Hermione went to obediently stand next to her, and her grandmother knelt down until she was eye level with her._

"_I have an idea," she began, Hermione's ears perking up with anticipation, "Why don't you go play with Tom for a bit? Your mother and I are going to start unpacking and then go shopping for some groceries, and your father and grandfather are planning on going fishing. I think you'll have fun, Tom is a very nice, polite boy. Maybe you could teach him a thing or two about those sea creatures you love so much."_

_She winked._

_Hermione glanced quickly back at Tom, who was still standing like he hadn't moved. He was still staring._

_She supposed that playing with Tom would be better than doing the other adult stuff. She might even take her grandmother's suggestion and try to teach him a bit about the hermit crabs that her father mentioned lived in the waters of the bay._

"_All right, grandmother," she agreed. They hugged briefly and said goodbye; she gently ushered Hermione over to where Tom was standing._

_Their eyes met._

"_Tom?" she asked, looking directly into his darkened gaze._

"_Yes?" he replied, suddenly unsure and nervous._

"_Have you ever seen what a hermit crab looks like?"_

_What an odd question. _

_Tom replied no, but he suddenly found himself wanting to learn everything there was to know about one._

As he held her even closer to him, ignoring her little squeals and ignoring the slight pain in his calves from running, he didn't want to let go. And he certainly didn't plan on it.

* * *

Tom and Hermione had made it back to the house successfully, and, much to his displeasure, Hermione had politely asked him to put her down so she could wring out her hair and begin to dry off.

"Well, that certainly was—" he began, still somewhat out of breath after running for the past few minutes.

"Yeah," Hermione agreed, still using her damp towel to dry her hair. "I guess we both should go change."

Tom nodded.

He turned to head towards one of the spare rooms and collected a second set of clothes before Hermione suddenly called out his name, immediately causing him to turn around to face her.

He tried to turn his attention to her eyes, but her legs—

"Yes?" he asked, his voice coming out slightly huskier than he intended.

"We can meet back in the kitchen for dinner, if you'd like," she offered.

Tom was thrilled. He knew at some point he would need to get back to his own quarters soon, he knew his father would be wondering—

But in the mean time, he couldn't find the strength to say no or deny Hermione anything she asked. Also, he didn't want to leave. Every minute spent with her was precious. After all, she was only supposed to be here for a month before she had to leave again.

_Might as well make the most of it_, he thought.

"Of course," he smiled at her, watching her flash a small smile of her own as she began to climb the staircase towards her bedroom.

_Anything for you, Hermione_. _Always_.

* * *

When she returned to her bedroom, Hermione immediately locked herself in the adjoining bathroom, her breath coming out in shaky spurts as she clutched the counter of the vanity.

_How_ could it be possible that _one_ boy—well, _man_—could affect her in such a mind-boggling, unexplainable way?

She had never expected to feel so strongly about a boy that she had briefly met fifteen years ago. Of course, there were a few other boys in her time at university that were certainly charming and handsome, and she had declined their offers, opting to focus on her schoolwork instead, but Tom—

Tom affected her like _no one_ had.

Just simply resting in his arms, or even him being ever so the gentleman, politely helping her clumsy self climb the jagged rocks, made her heart just _flutter_ with something incredibly foreign to her.

Not to mention she could hardly look him in the eye without blushing furiously, and after what she had done today, _my goodness_—

She admitted it.

She had _wanted_ to kiss him.

If Tom had taken it upon himself to close the distance and place his lips upon hers, she wouldn't have rejected it. She would have welcomed it, gladly and even enthusiastically.

They had never kissed before, and she was positive he had never kissed another girl either, with him being so far away from the general population.

She had never kissed anyone either.

But she wondered, genuinely wondered, if she and Tom were to kiss, would it be that type that she had always heard about? The type of kiss that shocks you to the core, the kiss that makes you just never want to stop, the kiss that feels as if you just gave someone a part of your soul—

She wanted that mind-blowing, explosive kiss, the one that her friends had always talked about, the one she heard about in movies and in novels, and she wondered if she kissed Tom would that really happen.

She wanted to find out.

Because if Tom were to kiss her, she guessed then at that moment, she'd want to give up school, give up the blasted research project, and just _stay_—

She really didn't want to leave.

It had only been a _day_, just _one day_, and she already found herself ready to drop _everything_, everything that was constant and relevant in her life, all for the possible love of a mere boy she had met so long ago—

She sighed.

She didn't think it would be possible. Rational people wouldn't just leave a career or a university because they merely thought they were in love with someone who may or may not love them in return. She had no idea if Tom even felt that way towards her, but the way that he held her and carried her and just _looked_ at her signaled otherwise—

She didn't know what to do.

All she knew was that, whether she wanted to or not, she wanted to just _be_ with Tom.

She didn't want to go anywhere.

* * *

Within the hour, Hermione had met Tom downstairs in the foyer before following him to the kitchen where they had an equally simple dinner of roast beef, kindly made and delivered the day before by Tom's father, along with some potatoes and carrots.

They spent the next hour and a half laughing and telling stories once again, reminiscing of the day's earlier events, Tom laughing absurdly as he mimicked the way Hermione shrieked as he ran with her through the rain—

It had to end all too soon. She knew in the back of her mind that Tom would have to return home, and his father would be wondering where he was.

As Tom readied himself to leave, he promised Hermione that he would take her to visit his father soon, and Hermione gladly consented.

She helped him gather his gardening bag and set of wet clothes and ushered him out the door, and she wondered if he didn't want to leave either—

"Really, Hermione, today was just, you know, just—" he started, somewhat fumbling over his words, as if he really couldn't adequately transform his feelings into a coherent explanation.

"It was," Hermione finished quickly, flashing a grateful smile at him; she wanted to just go ahead and ask him to stay, but she refrained, instead choosing to grasp the door post so that she would be tempted to reach out for him instead.

"Right," Tom said, shuffling on his feet outside on the walkway. "I'll just head back home then. Have a goodnight, Hermione."

His eyes flashed with a tinge of sadness, and Hermione could tell he didn't want to leave, but for the sake of propriety, she didn't say anything.

As Tom turned and started across the lawn, she called out to him before she could help herself.

"Tom!"

He immediately turned around, hopeful.

She stopped just outside the doorway.

"Come back tomorrow. Please," she spoke softly, yet earnestly. She meant it. She wanted for this night to be over with; in truth, she felt like a child on Christmas Eve again, wanting to go to bed and fall asleep as fast as she could, just so she could wake up and see him.

"Of course."

And all she could think in that moment was, _My god, he has a beautiful smile_.

* * *

Tom had only been gone fifteen minutes after it started.

After he left, Hermione had walked up the stairs of the empty house and into her bedroom, buried herself under the covers, and started reading of her field guides. Needless to say, she was rather unfocused and disheveled after Tom left; she found herself reading the same sentence nearly twenty times over, unable to concentration due to the foreign ache in her heart.

_He'll be back tomorrow_, she tried to console herself to no avail. _He promised_.

During her frustrations, Hermione finally decided to chuck the book on the floor and turn off the lamp on her nightstand, the one that stood next to the beautiful bouquet of roses Tom left her.

She smiled.

The room darkened, and Hermione closed her eyes, hoping and trying to fall asleep as quickly as she could.

_The faster I go to sleep, the faster I will wake up_.

Her eyes had been closed for only a few minutes until a thunderous clap cracked through the midnight sky. With that, Hermione's eyes bolted open and immediately searched about the room, searching for something she knew wasn't there—

Light flashed through her windows, briefly illuminating the room in an eerie fashion, followed by another three thunderous roars that seemed to shake the bedroom floor, causing the lamp to shudder in its place.

_No, no, no—_

Out of everything in the world to be afraid of, Hermione was terrified of thunderstorms.

She could conquer heights, easily study and come in close proximity to dangerous sea creatures, and she had never had a single labeled phobia—

Except for thunderstorms.

She sat up in her bed in a terrified panic, her breath and heart rate quickly escalating, her hands shaking and starting to sweat—

The outside sky roared vigorously, and Hermione squealed and immediately ran from her bed and straight into the bathroom, quickly scrambling into the bathtub and drawing the shower curtains shut.

She curled up and tried to ease her breathing, tried to relax, but everything just kept coming, the roars were getting louder, and there _was no Tom_—

"It's all right, Hermione, it's all right, it'll be all right," she stammered quietly to herself, her voice becoming cracked as she started to cry uncontrollable tears of fear.

_Tom_, _I need Tom_—

He had already left, he wasn't coming back, she knew that, but she wanted him, _needed_ him—

Another clap of thunder, and another scream.

She could only think of one thing to do, one thing to say, but she knew it wouldn't work, it wouldn't help, but she did it anyway—

"Tom!" she cried out in a broken wail, still frozen in the bathtub, rocking herself back and forth.

She was sure the thunder drowned out her cries. Tom wouldn't come.

* * *

After Hermione closed the door, Tom headed off, his mind filled with thoughts about the day, and just, well, _Hermione_—

He couldn't get enough.

Of course he didn't want to leave. He wished he didn't have to. He was aware of it being improper to spend the night with her like that, and his father was probably wondering where he was.

Part of him itched to simply turn around and run back to the house and just tell Hermione that he was staying, but he knew his father would more than likely wander over to find where he had went.

The day had been perfect, _more_ than perfect really, it was absolutely—

_Hmm. Something feels off._

Tom halted in his walk, stopping to lift the bag that was carrying his change of wet clothes and gardening tools. To his confusion, it felt surprisingly lighter than before. Although he couldn't see in the darkened atmosphere, he rummaged around in the bag, checking to see if he had forgotten anything.

_Shirt, trousers, gloves_—

His trowel.

That's what he forgotten.

Tom conceded to hurry and turn back towards the house—he hadn't walked too far from it yet—and decided to find it. One less thing for his father to gripe about.

He turned on his heel and jogged back towards the estate, heading for the flowerbeds he worked in earlier, and dropped to his knees, groping in the darkness, trying to find the lone gardening tool.

In an instant, a thunderous boom echoed through the sky, and rain began to trickle down.

Tom winced as cold raindrops began to pour, and hurriedly worked his way around the edges of the flowerbeds, squinting into the dimly lit night—

More thunder rolled and streaks of lightning flashed through the sky, and he continued to wipe the rain from his eyes and then his hands finally found what they were searching for—

But there was something else.

Between the deafening crashes of thunder and the blinding streaks of lightning, Tom sensed something else, something like—a voice?

He paused, not minding the rain soaking his clothes and skin, and he heard the noise once more, a wail and cry, _what was it_?

Strangely so, the alien sound soon began to take shape, form into a coherent word, something that sounded something like _his _name—

_Tom_.

Was it really—

_Tom._

He began to think it was—

_Tom_.

And just like that, lightning flashed and thunder roared, and Tom's thoughts finally connected the dots and aligned correctly, and then he fully realized—

_Hermione_.

Hermione!

How could he have forgotten? Of course she was terrified of thunderstorms, it was just like the night in the boathouse—

Before he knew it, Tom was already on his feet and sprinting towards the door.

* * *

She couldn't stop, she couldn't stop, the tears just kept coming—

No matter how many times she told herself it would be all right, it didn't work, it wasn't the same, _there_ _was no Tom_—

She needed him.

She never thought she needed someone more in that one moment, and she was so consumed by her fear and her thoughts, all becoming more incoherent by the moment, her heart echoing the booms of the thunder outside, she didn't realize—

Her name, what was saying it?

She was confused, terribly confused…

She screamed once more as she heard yet another loud noise, but she was completely unprepared for when someone yanked the curtains open and was soon standing before her—

She looked up through red, puffy watering eyes and tried to focus.

"Tom," she whispered brokenly, wiping the tears from her face, watching as he threw himself down in the bathtub behind her, quickly pulling her flush against him, and she relaxed into him immediately.

"Shh, it's all right, Hermione, it's all right," he whispered into her ear, reaching his hands up to gently caress her mass of curls, and they both felt that same intimacy, the same one from the night in the boathouse.

She cried into his shoulder, unabashedly, still scared, still terrified, but now it was different, because Tom was here, and Tom could make it better—

He rocked her back and forth in his arms, holding her close, enveloping her in his warmth, and all Tom could see was that five-year-old girl, so delicate, so _fragile_, crying into him, making him want to _hurt_ anything or anyone that would ever dare to touch or harm her.

In those moments, Tom continued to speak and softly hush her, trying to calm her down in anyway that he could, trying to not only to ease her discomfort but also to try and ease the pain tugging in his heart—

From that night in the boathouse, he couldn't stand to see her in such fear, he could remember her telling him she couldn't breathe, but he didn't tell her he felt the same—

An eternity seemed to pass before the storm finally ebbed away into the distance, the night returning to its peaceful, calm state.

Hermione soon began to quiet down, and the perpetual waterfalls of tears finally ceased, and she remained perfectly quite and still in Tom's arms as he continued to rock her.

She suddenly became aware of how his wet clothes were sticking to her.

Hermione turned around in his arms to face him.

She looked at him.

He looked at her.

Her eyes were still pink and puffy from crying, her cheeks and face were flushed, and her curls framed her face in a messy, yet beautiful manner.

His eyes were flashing with worry and concern, and his hair was wet and damp from the midnight rain, yet he still was so perfect, so handsome.

"Thank you," she whispered sincerely, smiling half in thanks and half in apology.

He crookedly smiled back.

"Of course, Hermione," he returned, choosing to pull her even closer.

He gazed into her caramel-like orbs, bright and glistening.

He sucked in a breath.

Hermione spoke.

One word. Just one word that made him feel like he had conquered the world—

"Stay."

He simply stared at her, wondering if he heard her right.

"Please," she repeated again, louder this time. "Stay. Here. With me."

It took a few moments for Tom to develop a coherent answer.

"You know I can't say no to you."

She smiled brightly at him.

The two of them took turns changing into dry clothes in the bathroom.

Tom came out, dressed in a simple pair of shorts, noticing Hermione sitting atop the bed, wearing a simple nightgown.

They both blushed at each other's sights.

"Right," Tom said, collecting his wet clothes, "I'll just head to the guest bedroom then."

Hermione's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and she quickly stood up from the bed, causing Tom to stop in his tracks.

"When I said I wanted you to stay," she started shakily, "I meant here. With me,"—her voice got quiet again—"In my bed."

Tom felt like he was dreaming.

Her gaze quickly redirected to the floor.

"I think it'll help me go to sleep."

Tom quietly set his bag on the nearby chair.

"Hermione," he started slowly. She looked up, biting her lip in nervousness. "You know I can't say no to you."

She swallowed.

"Right."

Hermione awkwardly crawled under the covers that she recently occupied, and Tom made his way over to the opposite side and slid his way in.

_Control yourself, Tom_.

He wanted nothing more than to just pull her against him, flip her around, and kiss her senseless, but—

_Control_. _She trusts you_.

She was stiff against the bed, never fully relaxing, as Tom settled in behind her.

"Tom?" her voice broke the silence once more.

"Yes?"

"Hold me."

That was all it took.

He immediately collected her in his embrace and wrapped her flush against him, her nerves beginning to settle and her warmth settling into him.

Her breathing eased and slowed, lulling into a smooth rhythm, signaling that she was more tired than he had suspected.

In the dim moonlight, Tom focused on the breadth of skin visible upon her shoulder where the neckline of her nightgown had fallen, and he noticed there was a small cluster of freckles there, probably not noticeable from a distance—

So he spent the next few minutes counting each and every freckle, feeling Hermione's body rise and fall slightly in her breathing.

He was almost positive she hadn't felt it when he placed a single, gentle kiss upon her shoulder blade.

He could do this forever.

If he could choose to simply _hold_ Hermione forever, he would, because this was just so _right_, as if everything aligned perfectly and that he was _made _for this—

He never let go of her the entire night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note**: First of all, I sincerely apologize for the HUGE delay in posting this chapter. Not only have I been consumed with school work among other things, but I have also spent quite a bit of time thinking about this chapter and how I want to develop the rest of the story. Needless to say, it has not been an easy process. This chapter sort of serves as a small transition point. Up until this chapter, there haven't been any other characters introduced into the main story line, and that is about to change (I can't just have Hermione and Tom all by themselves, now can I?). Moreover, there is a very important point made in the flashback scene in this chapter. During the first few chapters, Tom appears to be a perfectly innocent besotted young man, _**HOWEVER**_, I am still planning to make Tom resemble his "true self." Although he may seem like the "perfect, ideal boyfriend/man/whatever" for Hermione, he is (canonically speaking) charming, charismatic, manipulative, and sociopath-like. Now, he is not going to be the wand-wielding horcrux-making Tom Riddle you see in most fanfics and in the Harry Potter novels, but this Tom is going to maintain some of these same characteristics as the story progresses. That being said, Tom Riddle is not going to be a perfect angel in this fic. And now _that_ being said, I hope you enjoy the next installment of the story, and I hope to update soon!

**P.S. **I apologize for the brevity of this chapter, but, like I previously mentioned, this is a transition point into other parts of the story.

* * *

_**CHAPTER FIVE**_

Weak, dappled rays of sunlight began to pour through the golden brocade fabric of the curtains, illuminating the room in a subtle glow. Outside, the far away sound of waves crashing against the shoreline echoed throughout the room. Every facet of the house was perfectly still, unmoving and frozen in time, as Tom lay completely awake in the tangle of the covers.

Hermione had incessantly tossed and turned throughout the night, causing Tom to wake up on numerous occasions to readjust as she fidgeted—he hadn't realized she was such a heavy sleeper. Sometime around the break of dawn, she had finally come to rest facing him, her left hand placed against the wall of his chest and her face nestled in the crook of his neck, her breaths continuously tickling his skin.

In reality, Tom had rarely slept.

He wasn't tired in the slightest, and, to be truthful, he really didn't _want _to sleep.

Most of the night was spent simply staring at Hermione. After all, he hadn't seen her in _fifteen years_.

The only memory he had of her was the petite, bushy-haired girl with wide brown eyes that was simultaneously the most serious and the most carefree girl he'd ever known. She still _was_ the same in a way; her features hadn't changed drastically, but with the budding of womanhood, her chaotic hair had now evened out into silky curls, and her eyes became the color of molten caramel, and her body was—

_Well._

Tom had first counted the number of freckles that rested on her shoulder.

From there, he then studied the way her finely arched eyebrows would come together as she dreamed and the way her lips formed a perfect pout, a dark, dusty pink, just _begging_ for him to kiss her.

The more he thought about her, the more Tom realized he could spend an _eternity_ just watching her, just being with her.

His musings were interrupted as Hermione began to move in her sleep once more, stretching her back and yawning until her mouth formed a perfect "O".

He smiled gently as he watched Hermione's eyes flutter briefly before opening in utter fascination, her large brown orbs coming to focus on him.

"Morning," Tom greeted politely as Hermione continued to stare at him. She glanced down quickly at her hand placed upon his chest, and almost immediately, her cheeks blossomed with rosy color in response, causing Tom's smile to widen in amusement.

Although she looked like she could bolt from the bed any moment, she chose to rest her hand there as the two of them stared at each other.

Tom cleared his voice after a moment.

"I trust you slept well?"

Hermione's eyes darted back down at the tangled mess of the crimson-colored comforter, and she blushed again, realizing that she was the cause of the slight mess.

"I suppose I didn't warn you that I tend to move about when I sleep," she spoke sheepishly, the flush of her face creeping down towards her chest—

Tom was quick to respond with, "I really didn't mind. Really."

He felt the familiar heat flood his face now as Hermione graciously smiled at him.

"Well then," Hermione stated, "would you object to me making us some breakfast?"

Even though he wanted to blurt out, "No," Tom realized that, against his best wishes, that he and Hermione couldn't laze around in the bed all day.

"Of course," Tom replied, as he sadly watched her push herself away and rise from the bed.

She stepped onto the plush carpet and turned towards the large window, reaching out to draw back the curtains and allow the golden sunlight to pour into the formerly dimly lit room.

Tom's eyes widened as the rays of sunlight rebounded off her slightly messy curls, which now looked even more like her caramel eyes; her cream-colored nightgown capped off at the middle of her thighs, and it was _slightly_ translucent, just enough for him to see the equally creamy skin underneath, and he suddenly found himself enraptured, wondering if a spatter of miniature freckles, similar to the one on her shoulder blade, existed in the dimple and arch of her back—

He released a shaky breath and ran his hand through his hair as he sat up in the bed, watching Hermione gingerly slip a pair of slippers onto her feet.

He forced himself to turn away in the opposite direction; the more he stared at Hermione in just a simple _nightgown_, the more he wanted to catch her by the waist and pull her against him and smother her pink lips with kisses.

His mind buzzed with the thought of it, wondering if she would object to it, wondering if she might enjoy it if he did.

He gulped as he shut his eyes tightly to focus on something else, something to distract him—

He couldn't see, but he could almost hear someone calling his name, trying to get his attention, and then suddenly, he came to reality and noticed Hermione tapping his shoulder, a concerned look etched on her face.

"Tom? Are you okay?" she asked quietly, her eyes darting from side to side, inspecting his face. "You look pained. If you have a headache, I have some—"

"No, no, I'm fine," he quickly responded, a little huskier than he intended, "Perfectly fine, nothing to worry about." He beamed up at her, still aware of the blush flooding his face.

"All right," she replied, giving him a small smile while pulling her hand back. "If you say so. How would you like omelets?"

"Omelets sound great," Tom replied earnestly. "I'll go shower while you fix them."

Hermione smiled at him again and nodded, exiting the room, and Tom could hear the soft thuds of her feet loping down the staircase.

And so he was left in silence, his cheeks burning with desire and his thoughts racing.

* * *

(_**June 20, 1984**__)_

_Hermione's eyes furiously scanned the pages of the book, her fingers constantly flipping the pages as she absorbed every sentence, every mark of punctuation, her brain electrified with the influx of new information. She watched the pages come alive with vibrant pictures of the various sea creatures of the Great Barrier Reef, a place she had longed to visit—_

_A stray thread jutting out from the hem of her dress caught her attention, and she jerked it with impatience, losing her concentration for a mere moment._

_Nearby, Tom was left to the task of replenishing Mrs. Granger's vast herb garden, having spent most of the morning collecting and then replanting the basil, the rosemary, the lavender—_

_And even as he plunged his trowel into the thick, dark soil over and over, his mind and eyes kept flickering back to the curly-haired girl perched elegantly upon the grass, her legs crossed, barefoot, her small hands consistently attached to the large tome she was holding in a vice-like grip._

_He frowned. _

_To be honest, Tom didn't understand why that book was so special._

_He had politely asked Hermione to join him on numerous occasions, but she denied them all, staying fixed to her reading. The first time she rejected his offer, Tom became visibly disconcerted; Hermione _never_ said no to playing with him or to helping him with his gardening. _

_Who gave her that book anyway? He was sure that he was more important than a stupid book._

_He wouldn't think himself to be jealous, but he wanted to take that book away from her, that way she _couldn't_ say no to him._

_With his decision made, Tom rolled up his falling sleeves and decisively jammed the trowel into the soil, leaving the scattered bags of seeds and the basket of herbs alone on the ground. He walked over to Hermione until he came to face her, watching as her eyebrows crinkled with impatience, her eyes refusing to look up from the text._

"_Hermione," he spoke, trying to hide the tinge of anger in his tone, "could you _please_ put down your book and come over to the garden? You promised me you would earlier!"_

"_Tom," Hermione stated evenly, not even bothering to glance up from her reading, "I already told you—"_

_Tom wouldn't let her finish._

_He reached out and snatched the book from her, slamming it shut as she stared at him, mouth agape._

"_Tom!" she screeched, standing up to meet him furiously. "That wasn't even fair, I didn't even get to put my bookmark in it!"_

_He stood there blankly, the book tight in his arms, watching as her cheeks flushed red and her eyes glimmer with anger._

"_Give it back!"_

_Tom didn't answer. He simply stood there, an unreadable look etched on his face, as he clutched the book tightly to him._

_Something about the change in his demeanor stilled Hermione._

_As she looked back at him, Tom resembled a statue, unmoving, just staring back at her with an equally eerie, blank look, almost as if he _didn't care_ she was angry, like she wasn't a concern to him._

_His eyes were noticeably darker, much darker than before, so much they appeared to be black. They flashed momentarily with a hint of danger and a twinge of anger, but it dissipated as quickly as it had appeared._

_She had always thought his eyes were lovely._

_But there was something unsettling about the way that he watched her in that moment._

_She couldn't quite place her finger upon it, and that unnerved her._

"_Hermione," he said impatiently, "just help me with the garden. You promised me you'd help with the lavender, didn't you? You remember."_

_She nodded, she did remember._

_Her eyes glanced back down at her book, now in Tom's keeping._

_His eyes did it again, that same dangerous glint appearing— _

_She supposed she could finish her book later._

"_All right, Tom," she replied, watching as his blank, unmoving face transformed into the smiling Tom she was accustomed to._

_He started towards her, causing her to suddenly jerk back, but he gently took her hand and led her back over to the garden and set her down next to him, showing her the proper way of planting the sprigs of the various herbs._

"_Tom," she started nervously, "I didn't mean to yell, I'm sorry—"_

"_I know, Hermione," he interrupted, "it's all right. Here, just take the trowel like this…__"_

_He didn't look at her when he spoke, he kept his eyes directed at his task. _

_Something twitched inside of Hermione, something telling her that something was off—_

_The sweet aroma of the lavender and rosemary perfumed the air, relaxing her almost immediately as she bent down on her knees, mimicking Tom's movements and techniques. She allowed herself to smell the sweet branches of lavender before dutifully planting them like Tom had instructed. A comfortable silence had enveloped them as they both continued their fastidious work, the two of them exchanging smiles now and then._

"_See, this is much better than reading that book!" Tom exclaimed, as he began to plant sprigs of other herbs._

_Hermione nodded in response, but didn't answer him._

_Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a small smudge of soil on the edge of her sky blue dress, begging for her to react._

_She ignored it._

* * *

Hermione stared down at the coagulated mass of eggs frying in the pan, her mind once racing at lightning speed with incoherent thoughts, filled with him, filled with _Tom_—

My goodness, they'd even shared the same _bed_ last night. She still blushed profusely at the thought of it, and her hands became clammy and sweaty as she gripped the handle of the pan. As improper as it was—what would her _parents_ say?—she had to admit that it was…enjoyable. More than that even.

Almost too quickly, her trail of thoughts reverted back to the previous night's storm, and she winced, recalling the monstrously loud sounds of the cracking thunder and visions of blinding lightning. She hazily remembered gripping the edge of the bathtub so tight she could almost _hear_ her bones snap, and soon after she could hear herself screaming for Tom in strangled sobs, tears flooding her eyes, a small voice in her head using those same words—"_It's all right, Hermione, it'll be all right_"—that she had heard once before.

She admitted that she had needed Tom, especially in that moment, and she knew that he was the only one who could shower her with promises of safety that she could actually believe; she remembered her father doing the same when it stormed, gathering her in his arms and comforting her with soothing words, but it wasn't the same, it never was, because _he was not Tom_—

The sound of her voice had come out shaky and insecure, still coated in residual fear from the storm, as she asked him to stay with her, her cheeks fuming with embarrassment and her heart beating with the speed of helicopter blades. She recalled the way he smiled at her and the way that his hands shook ever so slightly because she had realized that they were one in the same—he had never done this before, and neither had she.

Her nervousness had peaked when he reached out to pull her into his embrace.

But when he did, Hermione could have cried in the tenderness of the moment. The boy—the _man_—she had dreamed and wondered about for years, was real, was tangible, was here, protecting her, just like had had when they were children. Her seemingly far away fantasy of seeing him again had happened, and she was finally with him, and now that she was—

She was scared.

And still nervous beyond belief.

Of course, she had some close colleagues at school that happened to be male, but she had never had a _boyfriend_.

She hastily sprinkled some shredded cheese and cubed ham into the omelet, folding it methodically, as she wiped her brow.

Her eyes shut for a brief moment.

Logically thinking, she shouldn't let that happen again. She would have to remind Tom that he needed to go back to his own house—surely his father had noticed he was gone?

Tom had stayed with her only one night, and it was going to remain that way. For heaven sakes, they weren't even _married_—

But.

_But_.

There was that small part of her that wanted her to tell him he could stay again. A nagging voice that begged her to just abandon the work that she was _supposed to be doing_ and just... leave it. Leave the schoolwork, leave the project, and just pack her bags to come here to stay. _With him_.

She hadn't thought that spending _one day_ with him would affect her this much. It had been _one day_ for her to see that Tom _was_ the same, and that she still had the same feelings she had for him since they were children.

It had hit her with the force of a hurricane.

She _had_ to admit herself that she did feel something for him. Even though she was still embarrassed at the thought of him spending the night with her, she knew, deep down inside, that she _did not care_ and that she wanted him to do it again.

She didn't know how it happened, they had only been five years old, but Tom had made such a noticeable, irrevocable impression on her that could not be removed, even by the barrier of time.

She had managed to forget about him occasionally, especially when she became wholeheartedly immersed in her studies, but Tom was _always_ there _always _somewhere in her mind, her memories constantly creeping up on her from the recesses of her thoughts. Hermione had often wondered what became of that charming, charismatic boy she met that summer, and she had pondered often about how he could have changed and what he might have looked like—

With her adolescent friends sharing their stories about their boyfriends and their first kisses and their dates, Hermione had sat and frequently—more than she cared to admit—wondered what Tom would be like.

Would he be the perfect gentlemen, who held doors open for her and held her hand and surprised her with crimson red roses?

She wondered what a kiss from him would taste like.

Would a kiss from him quiet her thoughts?

Would a kiss from him give her that sublime satisfaction that all teenagers seemed to chase?

Maybe if it did, she wouldn't feel so alone anymore, like she wasn't the only one of her friends who seemed to lack the experience—

But she also wondered if a kiss from Tom would solidify the same thought she had been thinking for the past fifteen years, the thought that she had attempted to dissolve for those fifteen years—

She hadn't realized there were tears running down her face.

And she certainly hadn't noticed that there was someone _knocking_ on the front door.

She hastily turned off the burner and flipped the omelet onto a plate, dropping the pan to the stove with a clatter.

Hermione stepped through the kitchen entryway and glanced up to see the bedroom door still shut, the faint sound of rushing water from the shower still running.

The knock continued until Hermione finally stepped forward and opened the latch, revealing a rather unexpected, yet familiar visitor.

His hair was still relatively dark in color and maintained its trademark thickness, but tinges of silver were threaded through it. He was clothed simply in a canvas shirt that hung loosely from his lean frame and black pants with the telltale smudges of dirt coating the hems. His face had become lined and creased with wrinkles due to age, and yet he smiled brightly before Hermione, his dark eyes crinkling with awe.

"Why, Hermione, you surely remember me don't you? I know it's been a while, but surely you do, I know Tom mentioned you were coming—" he spoke jubilantly and excitedly, almost as if he couldn't wait to see her. He reached out and shook her hand, pulling her into a warm embrace, which Hermione gratefully returned.

She smiled softly at him, and her mind once again reverted back to flickers of her childhood memories and the smell of lilies and hydrangeas and the herbs of her grandmother's garden—

"Of course, Mr. Riddle. Come right in."


End file.
